Desperation Chapter 2
by Temper28
Summary: A flashback reveals what life was like for John after Sherlocks untimely demise, and how John intended to change it. 1st chapter- /s/9451565/1/Desperation-Chapter-1


Chapter 2

It was just another evening. The same it had been since. Day in, Day out. John sought entertainment, usually from alcohol and cigarettes. He was lost inside, unable to shake the feeling of grief, that it was his fault that his best friend, dear Sherlock Holmes, was dead. He felt a deep sincerity of pain and hatred, he wanted revenge, but the one person responsible for his death, was already dead. Selfishly taken his own life, just so that those who wants to avenge his death, depriving them, no him! Of even the slightest taste of satisfaction! Ah what did it matter? John knew he wouldn't be able to move on, after a reoccurring pattern of drink, vomit your brains out go out for a job or two, get declined and repeat. Every job John applied for, he couldn't get, because of an affiliation of the one of the biggest lies London had ever seen, from one of London's finest, scratch that London's finest friend and investigator. Sherlock was a disaster. John almost wishes he had died in the war, never met the man. Though there was something keeping him attached to the thought of him, his heartstring still deeply imbedded in his memory, and if he were to extract that memory or feeling, pull the heartstring loose enough to rip it out, he would bleed. His feeling would spill and piece by piece, he would fall apart. Not that he already wasn't apart. He was in pieces, but he wasn't shattered, smashed to millions of bits by the very reality that put him here.

He thought to himself what life would be like, if Sherlock was still in his essence of life. It would be a boring and normal day, none of this darkness. The sun would actually shine through the windows again; John would see life as it was.

Often he thought of how Sherlock always said feeling is not an advantage, oh and how he envied Sherlock. To not be able to feel this kind of emotion, no pain, all locked away in his "Mind Palace". John snickered at the memory, but that snicker led to uncontrollable sobs of terribly deep longing to go back to that time.

So that night, he would see Sherlock in Hell; he would be reunited with his old friend. To just see him in real would make his joy spring load like a wildfire, maybe even able to kick him enough into breaking his addiction and getting off his beaten ass and into a job.

So as he sat here, holding the small pistol in his hands, looking down upon it with a blank stare, he looked as if to daze past the gun, looking at something deeper within.

As he pondered over it, a black cape flew through the cold night, curls, running. Breath-full, in attempt to save his dear friend. John stuck the cold, metal tip of the revolver into his mouth gently resting it in his teeth. He pulled the trigger slowly, thinking of his last moments, not taking it in, feeling relieved almost. He breathed in, hoping it was his last. He didn't feel anything though, a small gust of wind went past his tonsils but no pain. Another breath, and another and another after that. After a few more breaths, he gradually pulled it out. He leaned to the side and threw up once, twice, maybe a third time. He sat there screaming "Sherlock! Why! Why won't you let me die already?"

He didn't know if he had the courage enough to pull that trigger again. But with the pain of reality and his memories peeking through his drunken shield of numbness, he quickly points the gun into his mouth once more. Tears ripping down his face like horrible streams of blood gushing from an artery. He sat there, dead silent was the night.

…

"JOHN WAIT!" Shouted a voice next to him, his voice echo's through the abandoned parking garage.

John looked to his side; standing next to him, a tall, pail skinned man, with dark brown curly black hair and a body coat and a scarf around his neck, stood, with rosy cheeks and flushed face. You could see he was running for a while, his breath was visible. Once again he repeated in a cracked, weak voice "John, please wait!"

John was startled at the most likely hallucination of Sherlock. He dropped the gun down to the ground about five stories below and hit the ground with a soft clank sound.

"Sherlock?" A dead silence filled the hollow garage.

"John, it's me…" he sniffled "It's Sherlock!" He said Dropping to his knees. "John I know what happened! I know how you feel, because I felt it to, I still do! I felt it on the top of the roof, I felt scared, angry, confused! I- I'm sorry for leaving you. I just…"

He couldn't speak; he crouched over in pain and grabbed himself, reached his arms around his own abdomen and squeezing, unable to speak, only to sob. Vigorously trying to hold it back.

John, who had still said nothing, sprung to his feet and walked over to Sherlock.

"Is it really you Sherlock?" He asked putting his hand on his shoulder.

"Yes john, it's me, I'm back…" he said looking up at john who look very pale, almost gravely so. John almost tackled him with a hug, both of them grasping onto each other, like fish on a hook.

"It's damn good to see you!" said John sobbingly. "It's damn good to be back with you too John!" Sherlock said.

After that night they went back to the flat and Sherlock explained how he had cleverly escaped and John got a job. The piles of bills stacked were no more and things went back to normal, for the most part.


End file.
